Heretic Queen (25 page)

The devil was, as always, in the details of the offer. Essentially, Mary would need to renounce all pretended rights to the English succession, forbid any foreign troops in Scotland, surrender England's rebels, continue the men who led the king's party in Scotland in their offices, and maintain Scotland in its Protestant religion. Failure to do so would result in a joint and immediate condemnation by the English and Scottish parliaments, resulting in Mary's automatic forfeit of her Scots crown to her son.
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Fénélon dutifully sent off the proposed agreement to the French king in his dispatches of May 27, in the hope that he had brokered the release of Mary and lasting peace between England and Scotland. Unfortunately, Fénélon, like all of Britain, was utterly unaware that Pius V's bull excommunicating Elizabeth and absolving the English from their allegiance to the queen had been pinned to the door of the bishop of London's house in St. Paul's Churchyard two days earlier. The choice facing English Catholics between Pope and Queen would henceforth become known as “the Bloody Question.”

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The sense of surprise
and outrage was complete. In England, ballads were swiftly composed and printed. Proclamations and pamphlets were posted in London and at the market crosses throughout the realm. London's Bishop Jewel gave a stirring sermon at St. Paul's. Cecil wrote a pamphlet,
England Triumphant,
outlining how England had never admitted papal supremacy on its shores. Philip, ensconced in his palace at the Escorial, was incensed. “What I have to say now is,” he wrote to ambassador de Spes on June 30, 1570, “I received from you … the two briefs (bulls) dispatched by his Holiness … His Holiness has taken this step without communicating with me in any way, which certainly has greatly surprised me, because my knowledge of English affairs is such that I believe I could give a better opinion upon them and the course that ought to have been adopted under the circumstances than anyone else … His Holiness allowed himself to be carried away by his zeal, he no doubt thought that what he did was the only thing requisite for all to turn out as he wished.”

Philip knew better. “I fear that, not only will this not be the case, but that this sudden and unexpected step will exacerbate feeling there, and drive the Queen and her friends the more to oppress and persecute the few good Catholics still remaining in England.”
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The immediate backlash against the papal bull was, of course, that Mary could not be released. On this, the once divided council was absolutely united. Fénélon reluctantly passed along Elizabeth's change of heart to the French king, cursing the papal timing. Mildmay and Knollys were selected as Elizabeth's representatives to enlighten Mary about the regrettable, but necessary, change of plan. “I am thrown into a maze at this time,” Francis Knollys wrote to Norris in Paris, “that I know not how to walk from dangers. Sir Walter Mildmay and I are sent to the Scottish Queen … God be our guide for neither of us like the message.”
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Despite “not liking the message,” the decision was proved right. Before Elizabeth's emissaries had left court, two coded letters from Maitland to Mary and the bishop of Ross were intercepted by Lady Margaret Lennox, whose husband had at last been appointed as Scotland's new regent in place of the murdered Moray.
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Cecil had these quickly decrypted, to discover to his horror that the promise of goodwill and amity from the Scots queen was nothing but a sham. The proof, in Maitland's own handwriting, was the coded instruction to Ross to accept any conditions during the negotiations with Fénélon and Elizabeth, regardless of their harshness. The only purpose of these negotiations was for Mary to regain her liberty, for “if she were once at liberty I fear not that means shall be found to make both England and Scotland loathe to enterprise far against her.”
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Mary had been unmasked as a cuckoo in the nest, watching and waiting to steal England from beneath Elizabeth. The pope had declared any English person loyal to Elizabeth a traitor to the Catholic faith. If they obeyed the pope, Elizabeth would declare them political traitors to the future peace of their country. What neither Mary nor Pius V had counted on was the “Englishness” of Elizabeth's island people. Yet it was precisely to this audience that Elizabeth had been playing her “middle of the road” tunes for the previous twelve years. At the end of the day, she had to believe, English interests would prevail above the religious issues of the day.

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So Elizabeth began
this new era of “warming” warfare as she meant to go along. Mary had sealed her own fate, in spite of the papal bull. She could never be released, since she had been proven, yet again, untrustworthy. Before the year was out Thomas Norris was recalled from France, to his huge relief, and Sir Francis Walsingham—a noted Puritan—took his place as ambassador at the French court. What Elizabeth already knew was that Walsingham was not only a loyal and highly intellectual Puritan but also had the ability, through his language and social skills, to ferret out the far-flung secret Catholic plots against her and England.

Her back was against the proverbial wall. Elizabeth had no choice but to fight “godly” Puritans, Catholics, or anyone else who threatened her realm, and she would do it on her terms. Her prayer composed that fateful year urges “Father most high” in these troubled times “to implant piety and root out impiety … to destroy superstitious fear … to spy out the worship of idols; and … to gain release from the enemies of religion as well as those who hate me—Antichrists, Pope lovers, atheists, and all persons who fail to obey Thee and me. With all these things, omnipotent Lord, favor me, and after death my kingdom will be the kingdom of heaven. Amen.”
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FOURTEEN

The English State, Plots and Counterplots

The friendship of princes is adapted to their convenience.

—Elizabeth quoting Machiavelli to Fénélon, June 1571

On the very day that Pius V affixed his seal to the papal bull against Elizabeth, the queen fidgeted through a sermon in her private chapel delivered by the acclaimed Protestant divine Edward Dering. Though Dering had begun his career as the foremost Greek scholar of his day at Cambridge, he had already exhibited the unmistakable signs of Puritanism in his open criticisms of Cecil and Archbishop Parker. Yet, at the very end of this crucial sermon, Dering ventured beyond the pale. He took Elizabeth on a “progress” of her Church of England, just as Ezekiel did with God, to show her the corruptness of her creation:

I would first lead you to your benefices, and behold, some are defiled with impropriations, some with sequestrations, some laden with pensions, some robbed of their commodities. And yet behold more abominations than these. Look after this upon your patrons, and lo, some are selling their benefices, some farming them, some keep them for their children, some give them to boys, some to servingmen, a very few seek after learned pastors. And yet you shall see more abominations than these. Look upon your ministry, and there are some of one occupation, some of another: some shake bucklers, some ruffians, some hawkers and some dumb dogs and will not bark. And yet a thousand more iniquities have now covered the priesthood. And yet you in the meanwhile that all these whoredoms are committed, you at whose hands God will require it, you sit still and are careless, let men do as they list. It toucheth not belike your commonwealth, and therefore you are so well contented to let all alone.
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It was an accurate picture of the very real concerns of the pious, who had once upheld the Elizabethan settlement. It was also the death knell of Dering's once promising career. Twelve years earlier Elizabeth knew that she would never be able to address everyone's spiritual needs to their satisfaction; nonetheless, she tried to appease her own inner conscience through tolerance. At the end of that fateful year of 1570, there was no longer any need to reconcile the warring English Protestants. They were English above all else. The Catholic declaration of war had been heard.

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Still, the ultimate
litmus test of loyalty to their sovereign over God, as always, was Parliament. Elizabeth feared a repeat performance of her Parliament of 1563–67, since she had failed to either marry or assure the succession. Yet by January 1571 she needed to recall her troublesome members for a much-needed injection of cash to the exchequer. The Northern Rising or Rebellion had cost the crown dearly. Further, Mary's predicament needed debating and resolving. Then there was the matter of the official response to the papal bull.

It came as no surprise that the Parliament of 1571 was entirely comprised of Protestants. Paul Wentworth had retired, but was replaced by his equally obstreperous and colorful brother Peter.
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The grandson of Henry VIII's great minister Cromwell also sat for the first time. Even three of England's most intrepid seamen—Richard Grenville, John Hawkins, and Humphrey Gilbert—prepared to take their parliamentary seats. Joining the Lords for the first time was William Cecil, raised to the peerage as William, Lord Burghley, on this first anniversary of the papal bull. He was only the fourth man elevated to the peerage since the beginning of Elizabeth's reign.

London's Bishop Edwin Sandys delivered the opening sermon at Westminster Abbey, acknowledging that there would inevitably be debates at the sessions about the church, which “must be purged from all false doctrine, from all idolatry and superstition,” since “the Pope hath polluted and burdened the Church” with heathenish rites.
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It was his rousing appeal to patriotism that made the most lasting impression:

If we, linked together in the fear of God and in true concord and amity among ourselves, put to our helping hands, every one dutifully in his calling, to the supporting of this State and defending thereof, doubtless no enemy, no foreign power can hurt us, no bull of Basan
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shall prevail against us … we and our Commonwealth … [in] despite of all … shall be strengthened and established forever.
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Members responded favorably. Not only did Parliament concentrate on the issues consuming the Church of England, but it voted further money for Elizabeth's government and agonized over what to do about Mary.

Unbeknown to Parliament, Burghley's silent vigilance combined with Walsingham's intelligence from France and the Low Countries revealed the next plot against Elizabeth. John Leslie, bishop of Ross and Mary's closest confidante, was being followed. Early in April, two men were apprehended at Dover as they arrived in port from the Low Countries. One of them was known to Burghley's agents as Charles Bailly, a close associate of Ross. Bailly was searched and his portmanteau examined.

Inside a number of prohibited books were discovered, along with a packet of letters in code for Ross. Bailly was dispatched to London to the care of Lord Cobham, warden of the Cinque Ports, for further questioning. The portmanteau was forwarded to Burghley. What Burghley had not initially realized was that Cobham had hidden the existence of the coded letters. Nonetheless, having had ample warning from Walsingham that something quite serious was afoot, Burghley placed William Herle—a Welsh dissipated cousin of Lady Northumberland—as an informant in Bailly's cell.
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Herle proved expert at his task. He not only learned about the coded letters withheld by Cobham but also discovered that there had been a codebook in Bailly's possession, which he used to encrypt letters to Ross. Burghley set a bigger trap and allowed further letters to be exchanged with Ross. Bailly, meanwhile, was removed to the Tower and tortured to persuade him to reveal where he had hidden his cipher key. Cobham's duplicity was exposed, and he was placed under house arrest at Burghley's home. Still, the real breakthrough came from Bailly's admission that the coded letters “concerned a plot inviting the King of Spain, the Duke of Alba and the Pope to cause war in this realm and to have a force of strangers” invade England. Two unknown Englishmen were implicated, and Elizabeth ordered “the bishop [Ross] should be charged … and forced to disclose what he knew.”
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A coalition representing opposing views within the Privy Council was sent to interrogate Ross, who lay in bed, pleading illness. At the same time, Bailly confessed, after a stint on the rack, that he was bringing letters from Roberto Ridolfi to the queen of Scots (code number 40) and de Spes (code number 30). Mary and de Spes were questioned, but both denied any knowledge of the letters or Ridolfi's whereabouts. Without the encoded letters and codebook, the only alternative to uncover the truth was to bring Ross to London for questioning. He was incarcerated at the bishop of Ely's palace and left to sweat, without any interrogation.

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By now Parliament
had recessed. Disappointingly for the Puritan right wing, no church reform bill was passed. Parliament did, however, pass crucial legislation to deal with the rebellious northern earls and papal bulls. The new law was essentially a treasons bill containing a statute in its final clause making it high treason to “imagine or practice the death or bodily harm of the Queen, to practice against the Crown or to write or signify that Elizabeth was not lawful Queen, or to publish, speak write, etc. that she was an heretic, schismatic, tyrant, infidel, or usurper.”
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It was harsh and purposely mirrored Henry VIII's treasons act of 1534. Royal assent was given to some forty-one bills, with Elizabeth vetoing all bills relating to church reform. Taking no further chances on her lucky escape from admonishment on her failure to marry or assure the succession, Elizabeth dissolved Parliament on May 29.